UC 0079: The Zeon Home Front
by Kochiha Ichihara
Summary: A short work; not a true fanfic as it takes place within the Gundam UC universe but uses original characters.


UC 0079: The Zeon Home Front

Wake up. Sit in bed for a few moments as I reorient myself with reality. The radio isn't doing anything, which is strange. I climb out of bed, but I misjudge the distance, and my landing is pretty hard. Something clatters to the ground that I can't make out. I shuffle in the darkness until I get to the wall and feel around for the light switch; there aren't any doors or windows in my room (it helps me sleep). The lights come on, and I see my room, neat, orderly, and cramped, thanks to the placement of the desk, dresser, and bed. I now realize what it was that clattered over: the radio. It must've fallen over when I landed; this explains why it wasn't doing anything. I sigh, pick it up, and turn it back on. Right away, the usual news updates fizzle in. I listen to the ones that matter to me as I get dressed and brush my teeth in the adjacent bathroom. No weather reports--the weather's always the same up here in the cylinder that makes up Side 3.

I shuffle out of my bedroom, turn left, and pad downstairs, where my breakfast is waiting for me in the kitchen. I had prompted the toaster to activate just before I got downstairs, which should have been ten minutes ago. Instead, browned and cold toast sits in the cooled-off toaster. I still butter it and slather on some orange marmalade. I reflect on what I need to do today at the bank. Glancing at the clock, I realize just how late I am; I'll have to hurry up to make the monorail. So I wolf down my toast, swig a small glass of orange juice in one gulp, grab my briefcase, and make for the door. I attempt to grab a pen on my way out, but the pen falls to the floor, slowing time down for a moment. It deflects by a few centimeters when it falls, an odd effect caused by the spin of the colony. I don't pick it up; maybe someone at work will have one.

Dashing out the door, I barely make it in time across the street and up the stairs to the monorail station. The monorail itself just pulls in as I punch my ticket and roll through the turnstile. I mix myself in with the crowd, all on their way to something different, and walk inside the monorail just as the doors close. The monorail cabin has a sleek and comfortable looking interior, which could be made better by the lack of a flood of commuters. I take a seat by the aisle next to a uniformed woman, probably a soldier, in her early twenties, just like me. She has short-cropped black hair, oriental features, and a slim figure, made slimmer by the crisp uniform she wears. She looks over at me as I sit down.

"Sieg Zeon," she says.

"Sieg Zeon," I reply as clearly as possible, as custom when greeted by a soldier. She has reason to check my allegiance. There's been word of an underground resistance against the government, and some guy who just ran onto the monorail with full intention of boarding would arouse even my suspicion. The fact that I can say "Sieg Zeon" at all is proof that my loyalty is sound. Most rebels tend to avoid soldiers at all costs for this reason. Such things are on my mind as the monorail zips through the colony, passing by maybe three stops.

As we pull into the industrial section stop, a scrappy fellow with a t-shirt and blue jeans struts onto the monorail and looks in my direction. He's off the monorail faster than he had boarded. The soldier and I stand up, our paranoia tickled. I dash out of the monorail and chase after the suspect, who runs down the enclosed platform and makes a hard right into the greasy-looking and graffiti-covered station. I sprint to keep up, bumping some guy washing off graffiti, the soldier right behind me with her right hand on her gun holster. The suspect leaps over the turnstiles and tears through ticket lines, shoving people aside.

The soldier and I both yell for him to stop but he doesn't, not until he dashes through another ticket line and reaches the door to the stairwell to street level. He rams himself into the gray steel door, and it takes him some time to realize that he has to push it. This gives the soldier and me a moment to catch up. The suspect finally gets the door open and runs down the concrete stairwell panting, with me on his heels and the soldier on mine. He starts slowing down, but just before I have a chance to jump him he jumps, hurtling over the railing and dropping down three or four flights of stairs. I keep running, but the soldier stops, and as I glance over my shoulder, I see she has her gun out. The suspect apparently has his own 9mm as well, and now shots are ringing in the stairwell—too many for me to count. One of the shots shatters a light fixture right where my head was a synapse burst ago, shards of glass clinking all over the stairs. The shards from other light fixtures formerly lining the stairwell crunch underfoot as I reach the last flight of stairs. The suspect reloads and points the gun at me, I can't stop myself, he clicks the safety, I hit him before he gets his thumb on the hammer, the gun goes flying, clattering somewhere and landing somewhere I can't see yet since I'm wrestling the suspect, trying to keep him down long enough for the soldier to get down the stairs.

The months at the dock have made me strong, but this fellow seems to have worked at the dock at some point in his life as well; even with us both out of breath I have a hard time keeping him down. He elbows me in the gut and tries to get away; I stop him by catching his ankle. He clunks his head on the steel floor and holds it for a moment. I leap on him, trying to get him pinned as he tries to throw me off. We roll a little, but I stay on top. Suddenly, he throws his left arm out as if he's reaching for something—there's the gun! I reach for it, too. He tries to wrench me off; I plant my left knee in his belly. I get one finger on the gun, but this just inches it further away. He knocks me in the head with his left arm, throwing me off and standing up. He hastily bends down to grab the gun, but as he does there's a loud "BANG!" and his left leg buckles. I roll out of the way as he falls and grabs his leg, then roll back on top of him to try and keep him down. The soldier pulls the trigger; there's another loud "BANG!", the suspect's kneecap explodes, he cries out in pain, his jeans darkening on both of his legs. I get off of him so the soldier can stop his bleeding with pieces of his shirt and put him in improvised handcuffs with the rest of the shirt. She helps him up, picks up his gun, and tosses it to me.

"Come with me," she says crisply, "and keep that pointed at him." I follow her out the door onto the street.

The industrial section is just that; industrial, full of factories and production facilities, smelling of rust and chemicals, and full of a brown haze. There are no slums; the only thing I know of close to a residence is the prison block, which serves as a filter system to weed out the petty criminals from the maniacal killers and rebels, many of which can be found in the streets of this very section. The prison block also houses a military base, since it's the military that does the weeding. It's visible from the station, and it seems as though this is where we're headed, even if it takes us a while.

The soldier, the suspect and I seem to be the only ones on the street. It doesn't surprise me; anybody who would be in the industrial section is probably in one of these giant factories lining the street. Most of them look the same; gray, grimy, and silent, minus the glittering signs that depict victorious images of the Zabi family, leaders of the Principality of Zeon. I admire a poster of Gihren Zabi for a moment. Behind him is his sister, Kycilia Zabi, standing silent and masked. Her protégé, Char Aznable the Red Comet, is just as masked, but his face is full of character, the kind of visage you see in a true warrior of Zeon. I nod, taking in the greatness that is the brain, sweat and blood of the Principality of Zeon.

The suspect has stayed quiet, despite a look of absolute hatred on his bruised and bloodied face that grows more and more into a sneer as we pass more posters and signs. His face is contorted with rage by the time we get to the prison block, a gargantuan steel monolith tall enough to reach the lesser areas of gravity. The base is on the lower levels, and it's rumored to be able to connect with the gap--the space in between the colony's "ground" and the colony's exterior wall. Quick transport to the docks is down there, although it's only usable by those with military clearance.

"You can put that gun down now," the soldier says to me.

"Right," I reply, clicking on the safety and lowering the pistol.

The soldier slides a completely blank card into a slot by a security door. The door slides aside as the slot spits the card out. Inside is a clean and well-lit series of hallways, the direct opposite of the section outside. We go down the right hallway and into the sixth door on the left. Inside is what looks like a police station, only with soldiers uniformed similarly to the one leading me and the suspect. Zeon posters are everywhere, down to the Zeon naval flag tacked on the wall over the big desk that the soldier leads me and the suspect to. This desk belongs to a burly man with a hard-featured face that has a huge scar slashing down the left side of his face. He looks up as we arrive at his desk.

"What's this, Major?" he asks.

"Colonel. This--" she shoves the suspect forward "--is a fellow who ran from me after abruptly leaving the monorail upon seeing my uniform. He shot at me after he was cornered in a stairwell." She turns to me and extends her hand. I give her the gun.

"This is evidence," continues the major, "as are these." She pulls out a couple of bullets. "And this man here--" she points to me "--is a witness."

"I see," the colonel says, rubbing his nose. "And who is this fellow?"

"I'm not so sure myself, sir," the major replies. "He did, however, help me apprehend the suspect, whom I suggest you have made ready for the upper floors as soon as possible."

"Very well," nods the major, who presses "talk" on the desk intercom. "Lieutenant, would you report to my desk?"

Promptly, a thin, shaven man with a crisp face and a starched uniform walks over and salutes.

"At ease," says the major. "Take this suspect to the third floor and have him detained solitarily in block four."

"Yes, sir," snaps the lieutenant, who proceeds to grab the suspect and force-march him out of the office.

"I will prepare a full report," the major says.

"Have it on file in two hours," orders the colonel before standing and saluting. "Sieg Zeon."

"Sieg Zeon," salutes the major.

"Dismissed."

The major turns to me. "Sorry to keep you away from work for so long, but could I get some information on you?" she asks.

"Of course, no problem," I reply.

"Good. Follow me, will you?"

She leads me out of the office and left down the corridor until we reach the first door on our right. Inside is a small break room, with a table in the middle and a counter with a coffee machine and a telephone.

"Uh, could I call work and tell them where I am, Miss..."

"Kunogi. Shimizu Kunogi. Yes, you can."

So I do. I dial my boss and tell him where I am, why, and that I'd give him the full story later. He lets me off the hook, but only since the military's involved.

"Your name is Orson?" Miss Kunogi asks me.

"Orson Vaughn, yeah," I answer.

"Question one: answered." Miss Kunogi writes something down on a legal pad. She continues to interview me; my age, occupation, criminal history if any, and all that other stuff. It doesn't carry that feeling of imposition being interviewed by a soldier would give; it feels pretty lighthearted, even.

"One last question," Miss Kunogi says later on. "What's your phone number?"

"03-6828-52DF3," I tell her. She doesn't write this on her legal pad, however; she writes it on her hand instead. "It's not for your report?" I wonder.

"No, but can I call you sometime?"

I'm a little shocked at this. "What...what for, Miss Kunogi?"

"Call me Shimizu."

By this time, the message is obvious. "Call me anytime."

"Okay, anytime, but when should I call you?"

We both laugh at that. Then she goes off to turn in her report, and then leads me out of the base.

We walk around the colony for quite some time, making conversation and feeling pretty at ease, Shimizu (as I've started to know her as) seeming a bit less militant for whatever reason. We move out of the industrial section into the more corporate neighborhoods, past high-rise apartment complexes that connect with the recreational facilities in the zero gravity zone in the colony's center, down into some artsy area where just about everybody there looks at us (especially Shimizu) with disdain and animosity. (We take the short way out of that neighborhood.) As we go along, the buildings get smaller and further apart, until we've arrived in the colony's wide open parks. There's a bench along the path we're on, and at this point both of us are worn out from what really was quite a long walk. So we sit down and continue whatever it was we were talking about, until Shimizu changes the subject.

"I never figured it out," she starts, "so why did you go after that guy, Orson?"

"I don't really know," I answer after giving the question some thought. "Something about him told me that something was wrong, and the thought of underground movements had crossed my mind before, so I guess I was in a bit of a paranoid mood."

"It's good that you were," says Shimizu. "If you hadn't gone after him, I don't think I could have apprehended him."

"I'm flattered," I state.

"You're pretty capable," she continues. "Did you ever think about military service?"

"I wouldn't have passed the background check," I say, as a painful fact about me comes to mind. "You see, my father never liked the idea of colonial independence, so when the Principality of Zeon came to be, father left right away to go fight for the Feds. He didn't even let me know he was leaving until I heard about him taking command of some Fed spaceship and making it big in the opening stages of the war. I figured it wouldn't make me look good, him being my father and everything, but every so often, whenever I hear about the war escalating and know that I can't do anything, I just..." I stop speaking as I start to choke up, having touched my own sore spot.

But Shimizu smiles. "I think your loyalty to Zeon is sound," she says. "You harbor hard feelings for someone who betrayed the Principality even if he is your father. You look upon the Zabi family with reverence. You chase down suspicious individuals without being told to do much--."

"Hey, that was once!" I interrupt. She laughs again; her laughter is so heartwarming.

"Even so," I say, "I wouldn't be able to see you if I was busy training all day."

Her face drops. "That's true."

"I won't completely rule it out, though," I reassure. "After all, there might be a time when I just get so angry at the Federation that I just enlist blindly."

"And my report should clear you up," Shimizu adds. "If your relationship with your father was what I think it was, you shouldn't have any chance of developing sentimentality towards the Federation."

"Yeah." We sit on the bench in silence for a while, staring at each other. The silence is broken only when my stomach growls loudly. _Very_ loudly.

"You hungry, too?" Shimizu chuckles.

"What tipped you off?" I smile.

"Come on. Let's go get something. But only if you're buying."

"Just got paid yesterday, so consider yourself lucky."

We laugh, then stand up and walk back towards the bowed skyline of the colony, probably looking completely strange with her in her uniform, me with my briefcase, and our hands locked together.


End file.
